


Unbelievable

by Isis



Category: due South
Genre: Consent Issues, F/M, Humor, Hypnotism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2006-10-03
Updated: 2006-10-03
Packaged: 2017-11-06 10:46:29
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,517
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/417982
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Isis/pseuds/Isis
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A little coda to the episode <i>Seeing is Believing</i> (which ends with Fraser activating post-hypnotic suggestion on Thatcher).</p>
            </blockquote>





	Unbelievable

**Author's Note:**

> I've chosen not to warn and tagged it as consent issues, because Thatcher is acting under post-hypnotic suggestion. Written for stop_drop_porn with the prompt: paperwork.

So it _was_ a mob thing, which meant he had been right. Even if Johnny Maigot had done it, which he hadn't figured on, but that was just a detail. Welsh had the big picture. 

"In a pig's eye," said Inspector Thatcher. 

He would have argued the point. But just then, Francesca Vecchio came around the corner just then with her damn cappuccinos and lattes and God knew what else, and damn it, precinct coffee was sacred, it was _supposed_ to taste bad, and he completely forgot Thatcher and Maigot as he went storming after Miss Vecchio. He had fully intended to throttle her and throw that goddamned machine out the window. But as he descended on her in a righteous fury, she raised her hands in defense - releasing her cart of ridiculous coffees, which rolled toward him. 

He tried to dodge out of its way. But Karlander's desk was to his left and there was a file cabinet on the right, and thank God those coffees had cooled down while she'd been wheeling them around, because when he put out a hand to stop the cart, the half-dozen cups of milky coffee stuff still on it kept going, right onto his white shirt. 

"Oh!" said Francesca, bringing her hands to her mouth, her eyes wide with surprise. "I'll take that - I'll clean it - oh, are you -" 

"I am perfectly all right," snapped Welsh, and he turned and fled for the safety of his office. 

Once inside, he pulled the interior Venetian blinds closed, sank into his chair, and buried his face in his hands. Women. Miss Vecchio was bad enough, and he was technically her boss. At least he didn't have to deal with Commander O'Neill on a regular basis. He couldn't imagine how Fraser coped with Thatcher. 

He heard the door opening and he looked up sharply, intending to give whoever it was a piece of his mind. But standing there, as though he had summoned her just by thinking about her, was Inspector Thatcher. Looking…confused. 

He crossed his arms in front of his chest to hide the coffee stain. "Can I help you, Inspector?" 

"I thought rather the other way around," said Thatcher, in a soft voice that had nothing in common with her usual bark. She stepped into his office and closed the door behind her, locking it as she did so. "As Constable Fraser is otherwise occupied and unable to drive me back to the Consulate, I thought I'd assist you with your paperwork." 

"Paperwork?" he repeated, incredulously. 

"Yes." Her voice sounded a bit more confident this time, but there was still an uncharacteristic softness in the lines of her face, making her look younger and somehow more feminine. 

He rose from behind his desk. "Inspector, I hardly think -" 

"Good Lord," she said, cutting him off as she strode toward him. "What on earth happened to you?" 

Belatedly he remembered the coffee. "Oh. Nothing, nothing, those damn fancy drinks Miss Vecchio was -" 

"Look at you. What a mess. Here, let me help you take that off." 

"Inspector -" 

"Please," she breathed. "Call me Meg." Her hands were suddenly all over his chest, unbuttoning and untying, and he sank back into his chair in a daze. 

Triumphantly she yanked off his shirt and tie and threw them to the floor. "There. Much better." She ran soft fingertips down his bare front, sliding past his bellybutton, lingering at his waistband. "I _do_ like a man with a substantial chest." 

He gulped. 

She sat on the edge of his desk, dangling her feet. "Of course now that you've taken off some of your clothes, it's only fair that I do the same." She kicked off her shoes, then, leaning on one hand, she reached up under her skirt with the other and wiggled her hips, stripping off her pantyhose and dropping them under his desk. 

"Inspector -" 

"Meg, please," she said. Her hand disappeared again under her skirt. As he stared in disbelief, she drew out her panties and held them up for a moment in front of his face. 

They were white, with a pattern of little handcuffs embroidered in silver thread, and the sight sent all the blood in his body instantly rushing below his waist. 

With a coy smile, she tossed them onto his crumpled, coffee-stained shirt. "Now we're even." 

"Inspector - Meg - there's really no reason, I mean, you." He shifted uncomfortably in his seat, dropping his hands into his lap to camouflage his erection. Despite the lack of a shirt it seemed terribly warm there, in his office. Maybe it was just the look on Thatcher's face, a disconcerting combination of tender and predatory. It had been a long time since a woman had looked at him that way, and Thatcher was certainly one of the more attractive women to look at him in any way at all. And even though she looked perfectly composed in her suit - it was the same color as the foam on Frannie's coffee drinks, he thought - he couldn't help but thinking of her panties, on the floor where she'd flung them, and that this meant that now she was wearing nothing underneath the suit, nothing at all. He cleared his throat. "Maybe we should, you know. The paperwork?" 

"Fuck the paperwork," she said huskily, and slid off the desk onto his lap. 

Onto his hands, where it quickly became evident that she was indeed wearing nothing underneath the suit. 

"Darling," she murmured. Her arms wound around his back and she pressed his lips to his, and after a moment's struggle with his conscience he surrendered. Because he was in his office, and he was supposed to be doing work…but there was a beautiful woman on his lap, sliding her tongue into his mouth, the scent of her perfume tickling his nostrils, her warm, naked thigh shifting on his hand, bringing his fingers closer, ever closer… 

She gasped, moving against him, and suddenly his fingers were enveloped in her heat. "Just like that," she whispered. Obligingly he rubbed and twisted, crooked his fingers and moved his thumb in slow circles, and she closed her eyes and threw her head back and moaned. "Oh, yes, _God_ yes, please, don't stop, don't, oh, oh, _oh_!" 

He held her as she shuddered against his body, the fabric of her suit crinkling against his bare chest, her warm breath gusting past his neck. Finally she drew back. "That was wonderful." 

"Yeah," he managed to stammer out. It was all he could say, and he wondered if maybe, if she could possibly - 

Unerringly, her hands went to his belt. God, yes, he thought. He'd been hard since she'd taken off her panties, and all he wanted now, all he could think of, was burying himself inside her. 

But then she moved back onto the desk and smiled at him, her eyes smoky and hot under half-closed lids and long lashes. She gave his groin a smoldering look. "Perhaps you could…?" 

" _Oh_ , yeah," he said. His hands went to his belt; the gun had to go. 

"Quickly," she urged him. 

"No problem. It'll come off like _this_ ," he said, snapping his fingers. 

Thatcher blinked, and suddenly the softness in her features was gone. "Lieutenant!" she snapped, staring in apparent horror at his naked chest. "You're out of uniform! What on earth are you doing?" 

"What am _I_ doing?" 

The horror on her face was replaced by disgust. "Good Lord, man, get dressed." She shook her head as though to clear it. "For a moment I thought - well, never mind." She slid off his desk, then looked around in confusion. "Have you seen my shoes?" 

Wordlessly he pointed to the floor where her shoes lay, pantyhose tangled around their heels. 

Her face turned pink. "Oh! How very - how odd, yes, how very odd," she said, snatching up her pantyhose and stuffing it into a pocket. Slipping on her shoes, she headed quickly for the door. She placed a hand on the doorknob, then turned back to him, her face composed and haughty. Only a faint flush of color remained in her cheeks. "I trust we'll not mention this in the future." 

"I assure you, Inspector, that nothing is farther from my mind." 

She opened the door and walked out, calling out, "Constable, we need to get back to the Consulate," and Welsh watched her very fine rear end as she left. Very, very fine. 

Unbelievable. If it wasn't for her scent still clinging to his fingers, he would think he had imagined it all. What a shame that she'd changed her mind, just before he'd gotten the chance to _really_ get to know that fine rear end. What a shame that, based on her parting words, she apparently didn't want to do it again. 

He reached to the floor to pick up his shirt, then stopped abruptly when he saw what lay on top. Her dainty, white, handcuff-embroidered undies. Well, well, well. Gently he picked them up, folded them with care, and slipped them into his pocket. 

At least he had a souvenir.


End file.
